


You Look As Good As The Day I Met You

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: “It’s me, okay? Clarke Griffin?” Then, with a dramatic flourish of her fingers, “The kid who sat behind you in all your classes, the same one whose laces you tied together every other day for shit and giggles?” “Holy shit,” he gapes, recognition dawning. “That’s— Princess?”She shoots him a venomous glare. “Don’t call me that.” Or: Clarke’s not quite sure how to deal when her ex-nemesis from elementary school shows up. His newfound attractiveness is definitely the most worrying part.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think it should surprise absolutely no one that this was intended to be a short drabble meant to be posted under my tumblr collection; which, of course, spiralled. Happy holidays, you guys. Hope y'all have a great one! x

 

**____________________________**

It’s some kind of ironic that Clarke finds herself at a party three weeks before Christmas despite her general aversion to them.

Still, it’s for Raven _ ,  _ and Clarke is nothing if not a supportive friend, so. She stomachs the housewarming slash pre-Christmas party with unusually good grace; distributing glasses of eggnog periodically and manhandling drunken friends to the bathroom before they can upchuck on the new wood floors. A few of them she recognizes, in a vague, detached sort of way through Raven’s Facebook posts and photo albums, but a lot of them seem to be her new roommate’s- one Octavia Blake- guests.

That’s how she meets Bellamy Blake.

Or, to be more specific: it’s how she gets  _ reacquainted  _ with Bellamy Blake.

She doesn’t recognize him- not right away, at least- considering the last time they had seen each other was back in the third grade, before he had moved away to live with his aunt. Bellamy back then had been all awkward angles and gangly limbs, crooked smile and too-long hair that kept flopping into his eyes. Cute, but not all that memorable. Plus, he had been  _ insufferable,  _ so it’s not like she thought of him much beyond wanting to stick a pencil through his eyeball.

So it’s no fault of her own, really, that the first thought she has upon laying eyes on him is that she would gladly climb him like a tree.

“Hey,” she hisses, nudging at Monty’s ribs none-too-gently. “Do you know that guy?”

The wounded noise he makes in response makes her feel bad almost instantaneously. “Who?” He asks, craning his neck in the direction of her head tilt. “The guy with the beanie?”

“No, the guy next to him.”

“Ah,” he says, quirking his brow suggestively. “Not so tall, dark, and handsome?”

She sneaks another surreptitious peek at him, gaze catching on his broad shoulders, the splattering of freckles disappearing down the collar of his shirt. “He’s distracting.”

He lets out an appreciative hum at that, reaching over to pat at her shoulder comfortingly. “No, I don’t know him. On the positive side though, they’re by the drinks table. So if we’re going to make a fool of ourselves in front of the cute guys, we can do it drunk.”

“I’m not a lightweight like you,” she points out, trailing after him as they casually ( _ subtly _ ) inch their way towards the table. “One glass of eggnog is hardly going to get me drunk.”

“If you ask, I’m pretty sure Raven has some hard liquor for you to spike your drink with.”

Grimacing, she snags a cup off the table, hands it to Monty. “I said  _ tipsy, _ not flat out drunk.”

“If it gives you the courage to look the guy in the eye,” he goes, sipping at his drink, “why not?”

She snorts, sputtering eggnog everywhere. “ _ Me?  _ That’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Hey!” He retorts, defensive, his knuckles going white over the rim of his cup. “I can — I know how to flirt, okay? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

Resisting the urge to burst into laughter, she takes another gulp at her drink instead, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from showing. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well.” He says, his chest puffing up in indignation. “I’m going to— I’m getting his number, Clarke. Just watch.”

Grinning, she maneuvers her arm around his shoulder, squeezing once. “Go get him, tiger.”

“I’m  _ definitely _ going to have numerous conversations with him.” He mutters, hunching his shoulder to his ears. “And they will be  _ flirty,  _ Clarke, so help me god.”

“I believe in you!” She calls out cheerily, watching him weave his way through the crowd. Beanie guy is conspicuously easy to spot in the throng, his hat pulled over his ears and his hands in his pockets. His friend, on the other hand, has disappeared, and she tries to tamp down the stab of disappointment she feels at that.

Wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she sets her drink back down on the table, spinning on her heel so she could grab a refill—

Only to run straight into someone, the force of it sending her staggering.

Hands grab at her elbows before she can fall, steadying her, and she gives a little squeak before righting herself entirely.

“You should really watch where you’re going.” A voice says, low and amused, belying the harshness of his words. “You know that there are about fifty people in here carrying around scalding hot beverages, right?”

Blinking, she lifts her head, has to make a conscious effort  _ not  _ to blush when she realizes who it is.

“At least you’re not one of the fifty.” She observes, a small huff of laughter escaping her lips as she watches a smile curl over his; warm and intriguing and a little cocky, too. “This is pretty much the best case scenario that there is for me.”

“For you, definitely.” He points out, with a tilt of his chin. “Though I’m sure the most entertaining- and therefore, the best case scenario for  _ everybody _ \- is watching you bump into someone holding one of those massive fruitcakes.”

She lifts a brow at him, shooting him the most challenging look she can muster. “I’m going out on a limb here and betting that the Christmas pudding has a higher entertainment value.”

His grin widens at that, revealing a sliver of teeth. “Nah. It’ll be the gingerbread house.”

“Pudding is bound to leave more of a mess. Also,  _ stains _ .”

“Yeah, but people think that the gingerbread house is one of those quintessential Christmas desserts.” He argues, brow furrowing. “It’ll be like  _ blasphemy,  _ you know? And they’ll make a super big deal about it, and it’ll be hysterical.”

Giving a mock dramatic sigh, she plants her hands on her hips, failing to keep her grin from showing. “You know, it’s nice to see that my possible humiliation is giving you so much joy.”

“It’s all I live for.” He goes, solemn, clutching at his chest; his gaze flitting over to the space above her head, expression quickly morphing from surprise to shyness. For some reason, it makes her pulse thump unevenly in her chest, tongue darting out to wet her lips unconsciously.

“Don’t tell me,” she says, working to keep her tone conversational, “we’re standing under a whole bunch of mistletoe.”

He laughs, rocking forward on his heels slightly. “And here I thought I could escape antiquated holiday traditions this year.”

“You thought _ that  _ whilst attending a party that looks like Christmas exploded in it?”

“I had high hopes.” He tells her, prim; his eyes dropping to her mouth, throat bobbing as he takes her in. “But, far be it for us to go against tradition, right?”

“Right.” She says, already breathless with the anticipation of it. “That would just be… sacrilegious.”

His breath fans warmly across her chin, his cheek brushing against hers when he dips his head closer. “Indecent.”

“Irreverent.” Clarke murmurs before she’s kissing him; soft and warm and  _ sweet _ , grappling for balance at his shoulders when he deepens it. He makes a small, contented noise when she slips her tongue in his mouth, twisting his fingers in her hair, and she giggles into his mouth because she can’t help herself—

He breaks away first, still smiling. “Think that did it?”

“I’m pretty sure that sailed right across the bar and kept on going.” She says, a flush creeping involuntarily over her cheeks. “Which is, uhm. New for me, I guess, considering I don’t even know your name.”

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the motion smug but fond in equal measure. “It’s Bellamy, actual. Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke frowns, her lips already forming the cadences of his name, “ _ Bellamy _ —”

It all  _ clicks _ then, the image she had of him minutes ago crumbling, replaced by the memory of a boy with messy curls and a gap between his teeth and—

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She breathes, taking a pointed step back, arms raised. “Oh my god, but you  _ moved!  _ You left to torment some other poor third grader on the other side of the country!”

His confusion is written plainly on his face, eyes wide and startled. “Wait, what?”

“It’s  _ me,  _ okay? Clarke Griffin?” Then, with a dramatic flourish of her fingers, “The kid who sat behind you in all your classes, the  _ same  _ one whose laces you tied together every other day for shit and giggles?”

“Holy shit,” he gapes, recognition dawning. “That’s—  _ Princess? _ ”

She shoots him a venomous glare. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry,” he says, his voice going wry. “That was just instinctive. It’s how we left things the last time we saw each other, remember?”

“The last time we left things, I  _ tripped  _ and fell flat on my face from when you decided to tie my laces together.  _ Again. _ ”

That gets a wince out of him at least, his expression going apologetic. “Look, I’m—”

“Save it.” She interrupts, fuming, and with a pointed wave of her finger between the both of them, “This? This is  _ not  _ happening.”

“Clarke,” he says, sounding a little exasperated. “We were eight, and I was—”

“Don’t bother.” She snaps, edging past him and swiping at the last mug of eggnog, downing it in a single gulp and flipping him off as she goes.

+

All things considered, Raven’s a lot less horrified than Clarke thought she would be.

“Okay, so, let me get this straight,” she goes, with exaggerated slowness. “You can’t come over to the apartment-  _ my  _ apartment- any longer, because my roommate’s brother liked to pull your metaphorical pigtails in  _ elementary  _ school?”

Huffing, she repositions the phone she has slotted in the crook of her shoulder, sliding it into her palm instead. “I don’t think you’re getting how embarrassing the whole situation was, Rae.”

“No,” she goes, matter-of-fact. “That’s why I’m asking you to explain it to me.”

“He— He—” Clarke sputters, scrambling for the words, “he liked to tie my laces together so I would make an _ass_ of myself in class! He— he called me Princess all the time, and he sat on my crayons during art period!”

There’s a long, pointed beat on the other end of the line. “On purpose?” Raven prompts, sounding mildly incredulous.

“Well, not the crayons.” She admits, rather grudgingly. “Or so he  _ says _ .”

“Right.” Raven replies, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “And you never retaliated  _ once  _ throughout this elementary school smackdown?”

That gets Clarke to stop pacing, at least, mulling over the question carefully. “I mean, of course I did.” She points out, huffing. “But it was never as embarrassing as the stuff  _ he  _ got up to. All I did was put gum in his hair and tampons in his locker.”

The delight in Raven’s voice is unmistakeable. “You, Clarke Griffin, put  _ gum  _ in someone’s hair as a kid?”

“Oh, and I once emptied my pencil shavings on his chair.” Clarke winces, dropping back into her seat. “But that was a special occasion, because he wouldn’t stop laughing when I put my hair up in the Princess Leia buns.”

“How dare he,” she deadpans, amusement and exasperation coloring her tone. “Okay, so that’s fine and dandy and all, but seriously? This all happened over a  _ decade  _ ago. Can’t you guys just let it go?”

Clarke pauses, lets herself consider it for all about three seconds.

“Nope.” She declares, beaming with false enthusiasm. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again. You can just call me up whenever he’s not at the apartment, and I’ll come over.”

“He’s Octavia’s  _ brother. _ ” Raven stresses, frustrated. “I can’t expect him to come up with a schedule of when he might drop by. What are you going to do if you see him, leap out of the window?”

The thought of seeing him again brings that night’s memory back to the surface- of his hands in her hair and his mouth against hers, warm and soft and pliable; her cheeks heating instinctively as she trips over her words, “I’ll just— we— I’ll leave if he shows up, then.”

Yet another pause, this time loaded with suspicion. Then, with a hint of glee in her voice, “Hold up. Are you actually flustered right now?”

“No!” She yelps, rising back to her feet, the chair clattering to the ground with the force of it. “I don’t— Raven, let it  _ go,  _ already.”

“Did something happen when you saw him again?” She demands. “Like, do you find him hot, or something? Because he’s totally your type. I’m surprised your hatred has blinded you to the eighth wonder of the world that is Bellamy Blake’s arms.”

Pinching at the skin between her eyelids (where pressure is rapidly building), Clarke takes a deep breath, counting backwards from ten. “Fine. So maybe something did happen, but only because I didn’t  _ know _ that it was him.”

“You know I don’t have all day, right?”

Screwing her eyes shut, she braces herself, before continuing, “I  _ may  _ have kissed him under the mistletoe the night of the party.”

The shriek she gets in response is expected, though the shrillness of it isn’t. Grimacing, Clarke holds the phone away from her ear, presses it back in place once she’s realized that it’s given way to laughter, instead.

“That’s real fucking rich, Clarke.” Raven gasps out, giving a rather unattractive snort. “Jesus. So, what? It rocked your world and now you’re in this state of cognitive dissonance where you can’t reconcile your hatred and attraction for him?”

“Okay, now you’re just being difficult.” She points out, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. Not that Raven would be able to witness or appreciate it, anyway. “It was nothing. It was a rudimentary, chaste,  _ platonic  _ sort of kiss, okay?”

( _ With tongue,  _ her brain not so helpfully supplies. Clarke swats the thought away impatiently.)

“If you say so,” Raven goes, her voice going sly, “but, hey! Since it doesn’t mean all that much to you, it means you wouldn’t mind coming down tonight for dinner with all of us, right?”

“I’m,” she swallows, stumped. “I may have something on tonight.”

“You don’t, considering your plans were with me.” Raven says, smug, then almost tauntingly, “Bring your appetite, because Bellamy  _ hates  _ it when there’s leftovers.”

“Great.” She replies with as much sarcasm as she can muster under the circumstances, snapping her phone shut before dropping her head to her desk, groaning.

+

Clarke shows up for dinner half an hour late out of sheer spite.

(Granted, a whole twenty minutes was spent rummaging through her fridge in an attempt to stuff herself before making her way over, but the limited contents made it downright impossible to do so. She forgets, sometimes, that living alone entails more grocery runs on her part.)

Octavia is the one who gets her at the door, brow arched, and Clarke tries not to flinch under her scrutiny. “You’re late,” she says, mild, with what seems like a considerable amount of effort. “Come on in, we’ve been waiting for you to start.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, following suit and toeing off her shoes at Octavia’s lead. Then, a little lamely, “Traffic.”

Her response is a non-committal hum of sorts, her hair swinging loosely against her back as they make their way down the corridor and into the living room, the smell of garlic and herbs flooding the air. “I hope you like Italian, because Bell decided on spaghetti and meatballs today.”

She reels back, trying to hide her surprise. “He cooks?”

“Oh, definitely,” she snorts, plopping down onto the couch and patting at the spot next to hers, gesturing for her to sit, “any opportunity he can get to mother hen us, really. Did Raven tell you that he tried to buy us a vacuum cleaner too?”

“Uh, not yet, I think.”

“He didn’t try to buy us one,” Raven corrects, sliding into the room fluidly and swinging herself up onto the armrest of the couch. “He just kept making passive aggressive comments about dust bunnies and allergies and said he  _ would  _ do it for us, if we got around to getting one.”

Octavia wrinkles her nose at that. “Yeah, well. I think we’re doing fine without one so far.”

“It’s only been a week.” A voice cuts in, tart. Clarke squirms, has to exert a certain amount of willpower to keep from turning to look over at him. “You guys want to eat out here, or at the dining table like proper adults?”

“It’s cute that you have to ask.” Octavia points out brightly, patting at his shoulder. Then, angling her head back to look at them, “Last person to grab your food does the dishes!”

Raven gives a low swear at that, scrambling off her perch and bolting. Clarke follows close behind, her breath catching instinctively when she passes Bellamy hovering by the kitchen doorway. A small part of her wishes she could disregard his presence entirely, but the pull to look at him- to take in his reaction to her- tugged at her too strongly to resist.

He drops his chin into a nod when their eyes meet, lips curling into a small, indulgent smirk. “Princess.”

So  _ that’s  _ how they’re playing it. Cocking her head over at him, she assumes her most steely-eyed, ice-queen expression. “Bellamy.”

Narrowing his eyes, he slides a plate over to her, hands her a fork. “Dinner might be a little too lowbrow for you, Princess. Hope ragu is up to your usual standards.”

Gritting her teeth to bite back the pointed remark threatening to roll off her tongue, she manages a saccharine sweet smile instead, helps herself to a large portion. “I wouldn’t worry about me.” She points out, swiping the last meatball onto her plate. He gives no reaction at that, except for the almost imperceptible flutter of his jaw. It makes her grin, knowing that she got to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll wipe the plate clean.”

“Here’s to hoping.” He mutters, glowering, as she lopes out of the kitchen, still grinning.

They settle on a cheesy Hallmark flick, digging into their food with gusto. She draws in a sharp breath when Bellamy drops into the seat next to hers; his warmth radiating against her bare arm, his thigh pressing up against hers occasionally as he maneuvers his fork over his plate. She  _ hates  _ how he’s close enough for her to discern the sharp, clean scent of his laundry detergent, the faint smell of caffeine on his lips.

She shovels a mouthful of pasta to compensate,  _ anything  _ to keep her thoughts from straying over to him; to his mouth or the broadness of his shoulders—

Raven kicks at her ankle then, effectively snapping her out of reverie. “You do know that you need to stop occasionally to breathe, right?”

Wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she manages a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah, well. I missed lunch today, so.”

That gets a sympathetic hum from Raven, Bellamy stiffening ever so slightly by her side. For a second, she wonders if she’s imagined it, but then he speaks, his voice even, “Is it a common occurrence?”

She pauses, arching a brow over at him. There didn’t seem to be any malicious undertones to his words, but then again, she never quite knew with Bellamy. “I mean, kind of.” She starts, wary. “It comes with the job, mostly. Having a semblance of a schedule is pretty much impossible when you work in the ER.”

“There’s also the thing where she gets way too distracted taking care of everyone else to bother with herself.” Raven chimes in, sniggering at Clarke’s pointed look. “What? It’s true. The last time I looked in your fridge, the kiwi in there had  _ mold _ on it.”

“I was storing it for a  _ reason _ .” She manages, with as much dignity she could summon under the circumstances. “Are we done talking about me now? Can I go back to enjoying my dinner?”

“Well, when you put it like  _ that _ .”

Bellamy insists on washing up after, to no one’s surprise. Octavia volunteers for drying duty, while Raven attempts to do something about the faulty dishwasher. Clarke is relegated to transporting the various dirty plates and cutlery over to the sink- a task she wouldn’t have minded, ordinarily, if it wasn’t for the fact that it put her in direct (and solitary) contact with Bellamy.

He catches her wrist after she drops off her second load; his fingers comically large over the bones of her wrist, his skin burning hot against hers. It’s  _ nice,  _ somehow, and she tries (valiantly) to ignore the jolt of electricity she feels at the contact.

“Sorry,” he says, gruff, releasing her quickly after. Then, biting at his lip, he continues, “There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want them.”

She rubs at her ears furiously, wondering if she’s misheard. “Wait, what?”

“Leftovers,” he echoes, determinedly not looking at her. The tips of his ears are flushed red. “I stored them in whatever tupperware I could scrounge up here. Might as well take them, or I’m throwing them out anyway.”

“I couldn’t—” she sighs, planting her hands on her hips. “I’m good, thanks. Why don’t  _ you  _ take them home?”

“Not worth the hassle.” He says, scrubbing at a plate fervently. Then, a little snappishly, “Look, take them if you want them, Princess. I don’t care either way.”

“Fine.” She ekes out, scowling, breezing past him to grab the last set of plates.

Still, she caves in the end anyway- checking the fridge once he’s made himself scarce, easing the door open as quietly as possible.  

The tupperware in the fridge is neatly labelled; big block letters with the entirety of his name and address written out on the back. She rolls her eyes, has to bite at her lip to quell her smile.

Leftovers, all right. A likely story. It’s probably the same story he gives Octavia all the time.

She stows the tupperwares in her backpack, zipping it up securely. For some reason, she’d rather he  _ not  _ spot her leaving with his food in tow.

(That feels like an admittance of something, really, and Clarke has  _ nothing _ to admit to when it comes to Bellamy Blake.)

+

Last minute Christmas shopping is _ definitely _ one of those things that Clarke always tends to fall into, despite her best intentions. 

“But you made a list this year, right?” Raven asks, her voice tinny and disjointed through the phone she has pressed against her ear.

“Uh,” she pauses, staring down at her nearly illegible scrawl on the scrap of napkin paper that she salvaged from her Dunkin’ Donuts run. “Yup. Plus, I got Monty and Jasper for reinforcements.” 

Raven makes a disgruntled noise at that. “Well, they can hold your bags, if anything.”

“If they’re not stoned, sure.” She remarks, grabbing at the nearest basket before rounding the corner of the aisle. “Anyway, I should go. I want to get half my list done before the crowds come flooding in.”

The noise that Raven makes is nothing short of incredulous. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Your show of support means everything to me.” She deadpans, brightening upon spotting Monty at the end of the aisle, dragging at Jasper’s sleeve. “Anyway, I’ll drop by your apartment later to show off my spoils.”

“Sure, if you make it out of there in one piece.”

Mouthing a greeting over to the boys, she hooks the basket in the crook of her arm, handing over her make-shift list. “The amount of faith you have in me is astounding, by the way.”

“Bye _ ,  _ Clarke.” Raven sing-songs, sounding  _ way  _ too pleased by the entire situation.

She takes it as her cue to hang up then, dropping her phone back into the confines of her bag. Jasper is still studying her list raptly, Monty too busy texting to pay attention. Frowning, she pokes at his ribs until he looks up from his screen.

“I skimmed it,” he points out, defensive. “I’m just not sure what half of it means, okay? Your handwriting is kind of awful.”

Narrowing her eyes over at him, she takes him in- how he’s fidgeting ever so slightly in place, fingers drumming a erratic beat against the back of his phone. It all falls into place then, a groan slipping off her lips. “You’re texting the beanie guy, aren’t you? Bellamy’s friend?”

He cocks his head over at her; assuming the doe-eyed head tilt that Clarke has  _ never  _ been able to pull off. “Who, now?”

“Oh my god,” she huffs, hitching the basket higher against her arm. “Fine,  _ don’t _ tell me. I’ll find out eventually anyway. Preferably not while we’re stuck in a Christmas hellscape, thank you very much.”

“Hey Clarke,” Jasper goes, brows pinched together in confusion, “why does your list say that you need toilet cleaner again?”

Fifteen minutes and a quick debrief after, they part ways at the cheese aisle. Monty’s covering aisle one to five, Jasper’s doing six to ten, and she’s doing eleven onwards. It seems like a pretty fool-proof strategy, really,  _ and  _ the most efficient one. At this point, she’s feeling optimistic enough about their chances of making it out of here before the store starts blasting Michael Bublé.

So,  _ naturally _ , it all goes to shit when she turns into aisle thirteen.

The first thing she notices is the mess of curls peeking out from a worn beanie, the deft movement of his hands as he slides the box back on a shelf. The hem of his sweater is badly frayed, scarf looped messily around his neck and it’s  _ unfair  _ how good he looks even when he’s all bundled up.

She takes a small, careful step back, all ready to bolt—

Until she spots him reaching for the lone box of Legos perched on the shelf.

Swearing, she races forward, throwing herself over it in the nick of time.

Bellamy makes a startled noise, alarm written all over his face. Then, recognition dawning, his expression morphs into one of exasperation. “Seriously?”

“Deadly,” she says, grunting with the force of holding down the box, his fingers already curled on the other end of it. “I know you think I’m probably doing this just to fuck with you, but I  _ really  _ need this.”

“You’re right.” He comments, yanking at the box a little harder. She clings onto it, shooting him a venomous glare for good measure. “I do think you’re doing this just to fuck with me.”

Resisting the urge to kick at him, she straightens slowly instead, readjusting her grip on the box. “Unlike you, I don’t take pleasure in other people’s misfortunes, okay? I need this so I can gift it to a bratty seven year old who I know absolutely nothing about.”

“Well, I actually  _ like  _ the person I’m gifting this to.” He retorts, giving the box a hard jerk. “So why don’t you just settle for getting something else?”

“You’re suggesting that I waste extra time hunting down a gift for someone I don’t know?” She gapes, barking out a laugh. “God, you’re delusional.”

His nostrils flare at that, jaw clenching. “ _ You’re  _ the one who decided to pick a fight with me in a  _ toy  _ aisle, and I’m the delusional one?”

“Look, I don’t think you’re getting the urgency of the situation here.”

“Just go buy your second cousin twice removed a new PlayStation or something,” Bellamy sneers, knuckles going white over the box. “It’s not like you can’t  _ afford  _ it.”

The anger that flares up within her is bright and hot and sudden; the sting of his words hitting a little too close to home. “Fuck you,” she spits, hands uncurling themselves and dropping to her sides, the momentum driving the box back and straight into Bellamy’s face.

It slams against his nose, the crunching noise eliciting a horrified squeak from her; anger forgotten in place of the blood gushing out of his nose.

“Fuck,” she swears, scuttling forward and grabbing the box out of his limp hands. “Bellamy,  _ shit.  _ I am so,  _ so  _ sorry. Are you okay? Let me see.”

He swats her away, eyes a little unfocused. “I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly.

“No, you’re not.” She insists, hands reaching up instinctively to cradle at his face, lifting it up to the light. A purplish, swelling bruise is already forming by the skin of his eye, blood trickling sluggishly from his nose. The sight of it is enough to fill her with shame; guilt churning in her gut. “Oh, god. Okay, I’m bringing you to the ER.”

He snaps back into focus at the sound of her voice, scanning her expression consideringly. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, breaking away so he could wipe at his nose with the back of his hand. “What’s a minor nose bleed, right?”

“Your nose is most probably broken, you idiot.” Clarke manages, hating how she’s sounding half close to tears. Then, looping her arm through his, she tugs him forward, dragging him towards the exit. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

“Clarke, I’m—”

“If you say fine again, I’m knocking you out and dragging you to the hospital unconscious.” She declares, fumbling for her car keys in her pocket before unlocking it gracelessly.

That gets a low laugh out of him, at least, his hand curling around hers and squeezing lightly. “I was just going to say thanks.”

Clarke sniffs, squeezing back with equal pressure. His hand is warm and dry in hers, gentle, and she has to actively keep herself from thinking about how much she likes it. “Thank me  _ after  _ the doctor sets your nose right.”

He snorts, releasing her hand so he could slide into passenger seat, buckling up carefully. “Here’s to hoping.”

The car blares to life at that, and she floors the gas pedal, peeling out of the lot.

+

“You know,” Bellamy muses, a bag of peas held against his eye, “I really thought you working in the ER meant that I’ll reap some sort of benefits from it.” 

Stifling a sigh, she reaches up to readjust the bag, pressing it directly over the swelling skin. “Yeah, well. I don’t work at this ER.”

“So why we are here?”

“It’s the nearest one, obviously.” She says, irritable, slumping back against her seat. The bleeding has long stopped, but the skin around the area is badly bruised and seems tender to touch. “I think— well, even if it’s broken, at least it’s not out of position.”

He arches a brow over at her, lips curling into a small smile. “What, afraid it’s going to mar-” he gestures at his face wildly- “ _ this  _ beauty? It’s fine, Clarke. Even if it was crooked, it’ll probably add character.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She mumbles, peeking up at him from her lashes. “Don’t worry. You get to keep your pretty boy status, Blake.”

A grin spreads across his face at that, broad and unrestrained. “You think I’m pretty?”

She refuses to meet his eye at that, sliding down further in her seat and ruffling through the pages of the book she stuffed in her bag. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” he says, easy, and she can practically _feel_ the smugness radiating off him in waves.

Ignoring him pointedly, she begins to read, simultaneously keeping an eye out for the flashing numbers of the waiting list on the screen.

Strangely enough, she realizes, as the silence between them stretches amidst the hustle and bustle of the waiting room- it’s not remotely  _ awkward,  _ being with him. Well, despite the non-talking and the fact that they had been in a fight just mere minutes ago.

The moment feels easy, somehow,  _ slow. _ Like as if she would wake up any minute now and realize that it was nothing but a wisp of a dream. She shifts, uncomfortable, can’t help but wonder if putting people at ease was a talent of his.

She diverts her attention back to her book then, trying to shake off her thoughts. It’s hard to concentrate when she can feel him next to her, though, his gaze fixed on the same page.

Surreptitiously, she angles the book towards him, reading slower than before. He gives no indication that he’s reading alongside her, face carefully blank. Still, she recognizes the hitch of his breath at certain points, the bite of his lip and the furrow of his brow.

Carefully, she turns a page. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that he’s smiling.

+

A broken nose (set right) and several choice swear words later, they’re back in the car,  a bag of defrosted peas in Clarke’s lap. 

“You don’t have to send me home.” Bellamy points out, watching as she sets the GPS coordinates to his apartment. “There’s a bus station right here.”

“Yeah, well,” she goes, huffing, “I broke your nose, Bellamy. Can’t you ease my conscience a little and let me send you back, at least?”

That gets a shrug out of him, lips twisting into the smallest of smiles. “To be fair, I  _ kind  _ of deserved it.”

She reels back from him, horrified. “ _ Hey.  _ You know it was an accident, right? I didn’t— I didn’t do it on purpose, because of what you said—”

“I know,” he interjects, amused. “I’m just saying that if you did, well.” Another shrug of sorts, his smile going rueful. “I wouldn’t blame you.” Then, worrying at his lip, he adds, “And I’m sorry, about what I said. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“You meant some of it, I’m sure.” She goes, wry.

“Some of it.” He agrees, grinning. “But, uh. Yeah. It wasn’t warranted.”

Shaking her head, she pulls over at the next traffic light, turning over to look at him. The words stick to her throat, making it hard to speak. Apologies are something she’s never grown accustomed to, and even the act of  _ trying  _ feels difficult.

Taking a deep breath, she goes, “Maybe not entirely unwarranted.” It’s hard to quash the reluctance in her voice, but she tries her best anyway, admits, “I haven’t exactly been a model citizen either.”

He glances over at her, fingers tapping out a beat on the dashboard. “So, I guess we can conclude that we are  _ both  _ assholes.”

This time, she can’t help it. She laughs, sudden; the sound jarring enough that she catches him jump slightly in his seat. His surprise melts away soon enough though, is replaced by yet another one of his smiles; bright and unrestrained, a reminder of the ones he used to flash her as children.

“Yeah, that must be it.” Clarke tells him, returning his grin with equal warmth. “We’re both just assholes.”

+

It gets a little easier to be around him, after that, though it still requires a considerable amount of effort to keep things civil. 

A large part of it, she knows, has to do with their shared history and the fact that he actually  _ enjoys  _ picking fights with her. And,  _ fine _ , she’ll grudgingly admit that it’s not exactly hardship on her part either. It’s even a little fun _ ,  _ sometimes, being able to spar with someone about almost everything under the sun; to be able to say what she thinks without worrying about hurting his feelings, or ruining their friendship.

(Well, if they what they have can even be called a friendship. Clarke has her doubts.)  

What she’s sure of, at this point, is how different their relationship feels compared to the ones she has with her friends. Not _ vastly _ so, but in small ways that can feel momentous. She was always used to being the caretaker of the group- the one everyone turned to during crises or emergencies, the one with an in-depth knowledge of tax returns and a 401k- and that was fine and great and all, but the result of that had always been a distance, of sorts. The feeling of being more of a parental figure rather than a buddy, especially when it came to her friendships within the larger group.

It’s different, with Bellamy. Maybe because she knew that he was the same, too, that he understood the weight that came with feeling responsible for people. They stood on equal ground, despite their various differences, and it made it easier for her to just  _ be,  _ instead of having to be someone that everyone else needed.

There was no heaviness when it came to being with Bellamy. She breathed easy.

It probably explains why she’s still here, lingering by the threshold of the apartment despite Raven’s (and Octavia’s) conspicuous absence.

Bellamy blinks down at her, leaning heavily against the door frame. “You just missed them, actually. Didn’t Raven text you? About her boss calling her in for a shift?”

Frowning, she pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, hitting the power button. The message notification floats up, accompanied by a preview of Raven’s barely discernable short-form, followed by a series of emojis which she  _ thinks  _ is supposed to convey an apology.

“Oh.” She says, awkward, flashing the screen over to him. “Yeah, uh. I just got it.”

“It’s okay.” He goes, shrugging. “I just got here, anyway. Octavia let me in to do some grading because of the renovation going down at my apartment complex.”

She stares. “You’re—you’re a teacher?”

He shoots her a embarrassed smile at that, hand going up to rub at the back of his neck in a surprisingly shy gesture. “Yeah. Believe it or not, I teach high schoolers history.”

“I can see it.” She blurts, flushing hotly when that elicits an arched brow on his part. “I mean— well, you’ve always been good with Octavia, even back as a kid. And you used to borrow all these books out of the library, remember? Mythology and historical fiction. Miller used to complain about how reading your stuff put him to sleep.”

A flicker of emotion on his part, too quick for her to read. It makes her irrationally nervous, somehow, her mind already scrambling for an excuse—

“You remembered.” He states, soft in a way that she didn’t think he could be.

It makes her flush, stupidly. “Unfortunately. Anyway I should— I got—”

“Do you want to come in?” He interrupts, hand resting against the door knob. Then, as if realizing the brazenness of his statement, he backtracks hastily, “But only if you want to. I mean, since you came all the way here. Wasted trip, and everything.”

_ No, it’s fine.  _ She opens her mouth to say exactly that, rolling the words out on her tongue—

“Okay.” She says instead, swallowing. “If you don’t mind.”

She follows him inside, suddenly awkward. He must be feeling it too, if the hands shoved in his pockets and the fidgeting are any indication. A part of her is almost tempted to give another slip-shod excuse and bail- or hide out in the bathroom, even- when she spots the flickering lights of the TV.

“You know,” Clarke goes, breaking the silence. “I’ve been wanting to catch this documentary for  _ weeks  _ now.”

He jerks over to look at her, surprise evident. “I didn’t know you liked documentaries.”

“Didn’t have time to tell you amidst all our screaming matches.”

That gets a scowl out of him, shoulders relaxing considerably. “I disagree with you a few times, and  _ now  _ we’re having screaming matches? Nice, Clarke. You’re such a drama queen.”

“Me?” She laughs, flopping down onto the sofa and getting comfortable, “If I recall, you’re the one who talked off my ear for  _ five  _ hours straight because you thought that my sorting of a fictional character was wrong.”

“For the last time,” he goes, stubborn, grabbing at the remote. “He should have been in  _ Slytherin _ .”

“We’re not starting this now.” She reminds him, biting back a smile when he begins grumbling under his breath, the corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly. Then, kicking lightly at his ankle, “Play it back, Bellamy.”

+

They fall into texting each other, after that, almost entirely by accident.

Well, maybe not _entirely._ It starts because she’s watching Planet Earth, and it sort of strikes her that it’d be exactly the sort of thing Bellamy would appreciate. So she finds him on Facebook (via Raven) and drops him a message, just because.

He reciprocates by sending her a friend request, which she accepts before she adds him on Twitter, too. She can’t pinpoint the exact moment their snarks and witty one-liners evolve into actual,  _ full-blown  _ conversations, but suddenly they’re talking every other day and Raven is commenting on all their posts with derisive comments ( _ guys, limit this to the bedroom  _ and  _ ur babies gonna be nerds) _ along with the occasional meme.

That’s about when they decide to trade numbers instead. For privacy reasons, of course. And for convenience’s sake.

It’s a little hard to argue that they’re not friends, at this point. Which is why she’s a  _ little  _ stressed out about the upcoming Christmas party.

“For the last time,” Raven grumbles, with exaggerated slowness, “I have  _ no idea  _ if he got you a present. You talk to him more than I do.  _ You  _ should know.”

Wringing her hands together, she resists the urge to lob the last of her muffin at Raven’s head instead. “Be serious, will you? This is a real dilemma here. What if I get him something and he doesn’t? Or if he —”

It’s impossible to miss the smug note in Raven’s voice when she goes, “Since when do you care what Bellamy Blake thinks?”

She scowls, dropping her chin to her chest. Then, petulantly, “Around the time you decided to start butting in on all our Facebook conversations with your unnecessary, and frankly,  _ libelous  _ commentary.”

That gets a snigger out of her as she digs her fingers into her muffin, ripping it into smaller chunks. “It’s not libel if it’s true, Clarke. I can’t help that you guys are weirdly in sync and practically married.”

“Are  _ not _ .”

“Really?” Raven drawls, arching a contemptuous brow over at her. “Because I can demonstrate, if you like.” The statement is followed by a little wave of her phone before she launches straight into it, her voice pitched low in what she assumes is a terrible approximation of Bellamy’s voice, “@ Clarke Griffin: Finally caved and bought  _ Ella Enchanted _ because this one told me to. Way better than the movie version, though I’m not what she was—”

Flushing, she pegs the last of her muffin against Raven’s cheek. “God.  _ Stop _ .”

“— @ Bellamy Blake: You read it,” she pauses, grinning, “ _ numerous  _ exclamation points. Fire emoji. Smiling emoji. Heart emo—”

Jumping to her feet, she swipes the phone away from Raven’s grip, dropping it onto the kitchen countertop instead. Then, with a pointed glare, “I came to you in my time of need, and this is how you act?”

“Oh, come on.” Raven cracks up, brushing the crumbs off her lap. “You’re really stressing about this? Look, I’m willing to bet my firstborn that he’s getting you a present. In fact, he’s probably out there getting you  _ multiple  _ presents.”

“I just—” She makes a frustrated noise, slapping her hands against the outside of her thighs. “I want to be on the same page here, you know? What if I get him a super sentimental, thoughtful gift and he gets me a box of cotton swabs?”

“You told him you wanted Q-Tips?” She asks, brows drawing together.

Groaning, Clarke sinks back down onto her chair, massaging at her temples. “I meant hypothetically, Rae. This is a purely hypothetical situation.”

She could feel Raven studying her; gaze considering. “So,” she says, serious. “You’re completely freaking out because you’ve realized that you have feelings for him, right?”

Her mouth drops open at that, and she sputters, thoughts travelling too fast for her to latch onto one. “ _ No.  _ Yes. I don’t— This is a nuanced situation, okay?” Her skin feels too hot, tight over her bones, and it takes almost all her bravery to look back up at Raven, her knee bouncing restlessly under the table.

The look that Raven gives her at that is equal parts pitying and understanding. “Yeah.” She says finally, reaching over to pat at her shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll figure it out.”

Clarke closes her eyes, exhales. “Thanks.”

It’s quiet again, the only sound being the slow trickle of water dripping from the kitchen sink. Then, as if on cue, Octavia pads into the kitchen, guzzling from a half-empty milk carton.

“He got you a present.” She declares, flat, smirking a little as she throws the remnants of it into the trash. “I looked in his hall closet.”

“Uh,” Clarke begins, eyes widening as she looks over at Raven. “Octavia—”

“You’re  _ welcome _ .” She beams, skipping off before any further argument can be made.

+

She’s called in for a shift on Christmas Eve- which means that by the time she drags herself over to Raven’s apartment (sleeping bag in tow), it is close to midnight and everyone else is pretty much down for the count.

“We’re also running low on marshmallows.” Bellamy points out, easing the door shut quietly behind her. “Mostly because everyone had about five cups of hot chocolate each.”

“Huh,” she muses, treading lightly down the corridor. “You would think that all the sugar would keep them awake until midnight, at least.”

The noise he makes is exasperated and fond in equal measure as he sweeps his hand out to gesture at the prone forms sprawled all over the living room. “Please. They didn’t even make it through the second showing of Elf before they all crashed.”

She sneaks a surreptitious peek over at him then, nudging at his elbow playfully. “Except you, of course.”

His cheeks go a little pink at that, the muscle of his jaw working furiously before he admits, gruff, “Yeah, well. Who’s going to get the door for you otherwise?”

The knowledge that he had stayed up- had  _ waited  _ for her, when no one else had makes her feel strangely warm inside; molten and malleable and soft. Grinning, she reaches over to grasp at his forearm instead, turning him to face her. “So, you  _ waited  _ up for me?”

“Shut up,” he grouses, making a face. “You were— I just— I didn’t want you standing out there all night in the cold, okay?”

“Mm hmm.” She hums, tickling at the skin instead and bursting into soft giggles when he jerks away, scowling, the tips of his ears glowing red. “You’re such a big softie, Bellamy Blake. Anyone ever tell you that?”

He huffs, ignoring her statement pointedly before reaching over to slide her sleeping bag and duffel off her shoulder. “You brought a change of clothes, right?”

“Uh,” she glances down at her scrubs, splattered with drops of coffee and other unidentifiable stains, “what’s wrong with this?”

He stares, a strangled sound of disbelief escaping. “You can’t possibly fall asleep in your  _ scrubs _ .”

“They’re comfortable!” Clarke argues, faltering when Jasper gives a sleepy half-grunt, turning over in his sleep. Then, dropping her voice into a hiss, “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? They’re clean. Mostly. I didn’t get any blood or massive coffee stains on it, so it’s a win.”

“Or, you could just borrow Octavia’s clothes. Maybe Raven’s.”

It’s her turn to stare now, brows rising up to her hairline. “I would, if I can even get any of their clothes  _ over  _ my boobs.”

He looks a little sheepish at that, hand going up to rub at the skin of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She softens, unzipping her sleeping bag and rolling it out with a few well-aimed kicks. “Besides, like I said: the scrubs are perfectly adequate.”

“They would be,” Bellamy mutters, leaning down to rifle through his pack and retrieving a bundle of fabric carefully, “if the heating in this apartment wasn’t  _ crap.  _ Here.”

It takes her a few seconds to register that it’s  _ his  _ clothes that he’s offering, her gaze latching onto the  _ Blake  _ stenciled on the pocket. “Hey, no. It’s fine, okay?” She insists, pushing his hand back. “I’m not leaving you stranded without anything to wear tomorrow.”

“I can just wear what I’m  _ already  _ wearing.” He says, irritable, dropping the pile onto her lap. “Listen, I would prefer if you didn’t die of pneumonia on my watch, okay? That would suck.”

“God,” she snorts, finally relenting at the pleading expression he shoots her. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Far be it for me to disappoint.” He smirks, plopping down onto the floor. “Now, go take a shower. I’ll scrounge up whatever remaining snacks there are.”

Giving him a mock salute, she spins on her heel, trudging over to the bathroom by the kitchen. Her shower is warm,  _ nice,  _ and she tries not to overthink it when she pulls Bellamy’s sweater over her head, tightening the drawstring of his sweatpants and rolling up the hem.

It still smells faintly like him, somehow, and she tries not to laugh at how she’s practically  _ drowning  _ in fabric.

Flicking the lights off, she ducks out of the room, striking a goofy pose when she spots him emerging from the kitchen. “Perfect fit, right?” She beams, swatting at his face with her sleeve. “I think I might actually take this ensemble out and show it off to the public.”

He catches at her hand, fingers twisting past the fabric and lacing their fingers together seamlessly. Her pulse sputters at that, face flooding with heat as she tries (valiantly) to compose herself.

His throat bobs once, twice. Then, a little hoarsely, he goes, “Yeah. You should, actually.”

Wetting her lips, she finds herself shifting closer, pressing her body against his. She’s not sure what’s emboldening her at this point, the half-darkness of the room or the quiet; the moment untouchable and separate and  _ theirs. _ “Not sure what kind of message I’ll send if I walked around with a sweater that said Blake, though.”

His eyes darken at that, gaze trailing and possessive and making her knees go weak; hers going to his mouth—

A sudden, loud snore snaps her out of it, drawing back instinctively as Bellamy releases her, both of them looking over at the dark masses huddled by the TV. No one  _ seems  _ to be awake, though she thinks she catches Miller shifting uneasily in his sleep.

“He’s a light sleeper.” Bellamy goes, as a means of explanation. The smile on his face is soft, the edges and heat from before bleeding out as the moment drags on. “Murphy would stub his toe three doors down and it would wake him up.”

She manages a smile too, her heart still pounding frantically against her chest. The urgency from before seems to have dissipated, but not the longing. Not for  _ her _ , at least. “It’s because Murphy started swearing at the top of his lungs, right?”

“Nah.” He says, easy. “I think the hopping on one leg part is what did it.”

“Typical.”

His response is lost in the rhythmic chime of the clock; twelve of them, loud enough to inspire some stirring from the masses, but not enough to wake them. 

“Well,” Clarke says, once they’ve lapsed back into the relative quiet, reaching forward to butt her head against his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Bellamy.”

His arm snakes over her shoulders before she could dart away, holding her in place. Affection and familiarity and all  _ Bellamy.  _ “Merry Christmas, Clarke.” He goes, his voice wobbling ever so slightly as she presses her face against his chest, the racing of his pulse making her smile.

+

Her confusing jumble of feelings for Bellamy Blake is made all the more  _ worse _ when she opens his present the next day.

“Just,” he hesitates as she begins ripping at the wrapping, sending bits of tissue and confetti flying everywhere, “don’t expect too much, okay?”

Frowning, she jabs at his knee, pressing down with enough force to keep him from jiggling it restlessly. “Hey, don’t give me that defeatist attitude even  _ before  _ I’ve opened it. Besides, it’s not like you have a lot to live up to.” She grins, sliding her nail under the tape and yanking it free, “I got you a  _ jigsaw _ .”

“Which I loved.” He sighs, rucking his fingers through his hair. “It’s different. You knew that it’s something I liked.”

Octavia makes a frustrated noise at that; half impatience, half excitement. “Clarke, how long does it take you to unwrap  _ one  _ gift?”

“Long enough that I don’t run the risk of  _ breaking  _ anything!”

That earns her an eye-roll, on his part. “You’re not going to break anything.”

“If you say so.”

Yanking at the lid of the box, she delves past the wad of colored tissue, pulling the item free.

For a second, she can only stare.

“It’s because you said you hated spiral-bound sketchbooks,” he reminds her, tapping his finger against the leather-bound book. “And, uh. The binding is pretty cool. Lets you add in loose sheets as well, because you’re always sketching on napkins and graph paper and — _ oof _ .”

She wraps her arms tighter around him, burying her face against his shoulder. Distantly, she recognizes Raven’s wolf-whistle, Miller pegging popcorn at them and the flash of Jasper’s camera, but she can’t bring herself to care, at this moment. It’s hard to think about anything else with her heart three sizes too big for her chest and Bellamy’s pulse thrumming alongside hers, his breath warm against her ear.

“You’re stupidly thoughtful, Bellamy Blake.” She sniffs, pulling away.

“I’m okay,” he says finally, looking a little dazed. Then, clearing his throat, “Did I mention that it’s monogrammed?”

+

The thing about feelings is that Clarke is notoriously bad at them. 

(See: her handling of her numerous issues with her mother, the implosion of all her previous relationships and the one notable time she froze Wells out for  _ months  _ after a miscommunication of sorts.)

So, really. The ideal solution about the whole Bellamy Blake Debacle is clearly to ignore it until it all goes away, right?

“Yeah, no.” Raven snaps, barrelling into the room and yanking at the headphones that she resolutely slid over her ears about an hour back, “Okay, listen. We need to talk.”

She blinks. Cocks her chin in her best imitation of Monty. “About, what now?”

“You’re not doing this thing where you mope about your unresolved feelings over someone and proceed to do nothing about it.” Raven threatens, dropping into the seat across hers. Then, gaze dropping pointedly over to the sketches littering the table, “Well, clearly someone’s projecting.”

Heat rushing to her cheeks, Clarke scowls, gathering the sheets into her arms. “It’s not  _ my  _ fault he makes a good subject.”

“You drew the  _ back  _ of his head.” Raven continues, sounding mildly horrified.

She glares, snatches at the sheet when her grip on it loosens. “I’m  _ fine,  _ Rae.”

“You’re not being very convincing.” Raven shoots back, sweeping a hand over the papers that she is now hastily stuffing into her sketchbook, “I’m not  _ telling  _ you to do anything, okay? Just sending in a formal request, before both of you implode from all that sexual tension and blatant longing.”

“It’s not—  _ entirely  _ like that.” She huffs, annoyed at her own inability to put the way she felt about him into words. Not in a way that she could say aloud, at least. “This is different, okay? It’s— Bellamy— he’s my friend.”

Her brows crinkle together at that, clearly confused. “How is that a problem?”

“It’s not,” she replies, miserable, fingers going up instinctively to rub at her temples. “The stakes just— they feel higher, somehow.”

Though there are days when she wonders if it has nothing to do with their friendship, really, and everything to do with the depth of how much she  _ feels _ about him. How they feel about each other. Bellamy has always been able to get under her skin, has always been able to inspire the most out of her; good  _ and  _ bad. Her stubbornness, her ambition. Her vulnerabilities. Her caring. Everything with him is amplified, heightened.

There will never be a halfway point for them, a state of in between. With Bellamy, it’s all or nothing. She would give him her whole heart, and he would give her his, and they’d have to carry that with them indefinitely.

(The thought of it is both terrifying and thrilling.)

Her voice is small when she finally finds the words, unsure. “What if it’s not the same, for him?”

Raven pats at her hand, gentle. “I think that’s what they mean about courage.”

+

She doesn’t get to see Bellamy until New Year’s Eve- at Monty’s insistence that they all ring in the new year together at the bar Miller works at.

Cracking at the seal of her bottle (it’s too crowded to brave her way over to the bar again anyway), she grins over at Monty, who’s currently craning his neck to take yet another peek at what must be the World’s Surliest Bartender. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re  _ really  _ transparent?”

“Well, I’m allowed to.” Monty quips, settling back in his seat. “I’m told that this is what boyfriends do for one another.”

“You’re not wrong.” She comments, mild, reaching forward to clink their bottles together companionably. “Though I’m pretty sure he can see you, from where he is. No need to strain yourself or anything.”

He shrugs, begins peeling at the label of the bottle. “I’m just trying to remind him that he has a break in fifteen.” Then, his expression going sly, “You do know you’re doing it too, right?”

Snapping her head away from the door, she feigns obliviousness. “Sorry?”

That earns her a dramatic, drawn-out sigh on Monty’s part. “I meant, if you’re looking for a certain  _ somebody,  _ well. Just know that he arrived a few minutes ago and is over at the bar, trying to get a drink.”

Her gaze flits over to the crowd, catches on a familiar tangle of curls, the creases of a beat-up leather jacket. Her pulse picks up at the sight, a fresh layer of sweat coating her palms.

“What kind of friend would I be if I don’t head over to assist, right?” She manages, bright, before downing her beer and sliding out of the booth; pointedly ignoring Monty’s smug, knowing smile.

Squeezing through the crowd, she fits herself into his side easily, has to bite back a grin when his arm goes around her waist instinctively, keeping her close. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he goes, squeezing at her hip, his smile dropping off into a grumble when someone jostles at his side. “Jesus. I’ve been stuck here for ten minutes, you know that? I just want some nachos. Maybe a beer.”

She grimaces at the elbow that bumps up into her ribs, takes a moment to appreciate the way he seems to pull her closer at that; his hold protective and warm. “Yeah, well. I don’t think you should count on getting any form of sustenance anytime soon.”

He shoots a wistful gaze over at the door, the humidity plastering his curls to his forehead. “Should have went for that pretzel when I had the chance.”

“There’s a stand out there?”

His smile makes a reappearance at that, teasing. “You can’t smell the saturated fat and cholesterol just outside the door?”

“Must be obscured by the booze.” Clarke says, mock-grave. “Come on. We’re getting you a pretzel.”

“But we’ll lose our place!”

He relents when she tugs at his arm, dropping his head back to groan as she leads him towards the door and outside; the sudden blast of cool air making her shiver. His arms go around her shoulders at that, hesitant, before she buries herself closer, smiling into his neck as he rubs soothing circles against her arms.

“On second thought, this  _ probably  _ isn’t my brightest idea.” She goes, nonchalant, tapping at the goosebumps rising against his skin.

“I’m good.” Bellamy mumbles, cheek brushing up against hers as he grabs a few crumpled dollar bills from his pocket. “You want a hot chocolate?”

“Please.”

He keeps his arm loosely draped around hers even when he orders his pretzel, his other arm reaching over to grab at their orders before handing it to her. She takes the cup gratefully, pops the lid to blow at it before taking a sip. “Feeling better yet?”

“Peachy.” He goes, reaching over to pinch a marshmallow off the top, chewing triumphantly when she shoots him a irritable look. “Way nicer than the stuff they used to give out in the lunch line, remember?”

She retaliates by sneaking a bite from his pretzel, barrelling right over the sound of protest he makes. “Hey, I used to  _ like  _ the stuff they gave out. Turkey sandwiches and hot chocolate. Sugar cookies. The tamales on Wednesdays.”

“Oh, yeah.” He snorts, looking over at her. “You’d take seconds,  _ all _ the time. Drove me nuts.”

“It wasn’t for  _ me! _ ” She counters, indignant. “I got them for Wells, you prick.”

“Sure,” he chuckles, poking at her side. “For  _ Wells.  _ Applies to the numerous cups of hot chocolate, too?”

“Shut up.” She says hotly, slapping at his chest. “God, I can’t believe you remembered that.”

He falls quiet at that, expression going thoughtful. “Yeah,” he says finally, swallowing. “Of course I did. It was hard to keep from paying attention to you, back then.”

She lifts her head, tries to tamp down the irrational surge of hope that floods through her body at that. Keeping her voice light, she asks, “Because I was such a massive annoyance?”

The corners of his lips quirk up at that. “A little,” he admits, dropping his gaze to his lap. “But also because you were, uh. You know. All Princess like, with the hair and the smile and the  _ niceness. _ ” His laugh is soft, private. “But also kind of a hardass, too. Tough. Loyal. I was such an idiot, trailing you around, wanting you to notice me.”

Her breath catches in her throat, fingers reaching forward to curl at his chin, tilting it up so he’ll look at her. “So, you did  _ all  _ of it, just to get my attention?”

“I never said I was  _ good _ at it.” He points out, shrugging. “I think it’s pretty clear that I’m a total idiot, a lot of the time.” Then, almost consideringly, “I did get you to hate me, though, which must require  _ some  _ sort of skill. I should capitalize on that.”

“That’s not—” she shakes the thought away, forcing herself to focus. “So, let me reiterate: you did all of that  _ bullshit  _ in the third grade to get my attention. Because,” she takes a deep breath, sliding her hand up to cup his face instead. “You liked me. Am I right?”

He looks a little embarrassed by that, his teeth snagging at his bottom lip. “Yeah. Look, it doesn’t excuse what I did, I  _ know  _ that. But I was eight, and stupid and I thought—”

“Do you still?” She interjects, her voice tremulous. Her hands are shaking, but not from the cold. “Do you— Bellamy, do you still?”

He blinks over at her, the movement rapid. Then, almost plainly, “Yeah. Of course, Clarke. But I don’t— I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s—”

Clarke kisses him before he can get the rest of the words out, hands curling at the back of his neck to pull him closer. He stiffens under her touch for the briefest of seconds before he’s returning the kiss with the same enthusiasm; hands tangling in her hair and swiping his tongue in her mouth, his lips tasting of salt and warmth and interestingly enough, mustard.

“You’re an idiot,” she breathes in between kisses, laughing and shrinking away when he seizes the chance to nip at her nose. “You liked me for  _ years,  _ and you don’t say a word?”

“I didn’t think I stood a chance!” He argues, tone belying the huge smile on his face. “And I thought, fuck it, I’ll just tell you when the clock struck twelve, and maybe if I’m lucky I’d get one New Year’s kiss, like, out of pity—”

“Romantic,” she teases, pressing her lips against his once more, flakes of snow soaking into her clothes, her hair. “Just, wow. That’s a real plan.”

His hands go to her sides, squeezing at her waist, his gaze soft. “I didn’t think I’d get the opportunity, otherwise.”

She can make out the faint sounds of people starting to count down, in the distance- whoops and cheers and drunken forms swaying in the background, all backlit by the soft glow of the street lamps, snow falling everywhere. Bellamy’s face in her hands, lips bitten red and lashes tinged with snow, smiling over at her.

The moment is soft. Beautiful, she thinks. And more importantly,  _ theirs. _

“You’re definitely getting more than one.” She murmurs, sealing her lips over his as the world explodes around them in a flurry of noise and color.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at my trash can [here!](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
